


Peanuts and Cracker Jacks

by EllieBiel



Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, Murata is a shipper, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22138801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieBiel/pseuds/EllieBiel
Summary: Murata is way too interested in Yuuri’s love life.
Relationships: Wolfram von Bielefeld/Shibuya Yuuri
Comments: 4
Kudos: 94





	Peanuts and Cracker Jacks

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously AU - no Shin Makoku, no maryoku. Stereotypical American high schoolers, underaged drinking. AU Murata has an off-screen sibling. There’s an OC, but no OC pairing.
> 
> Another fic written in 2006 that was supposed to be a short drabble for LJ user **sharona1x2** and was supposed to be based on the song "How You Remind Me" by Nickelback, but this happened instead.

There was a new girl at school.

That in itself wasn't terribly remarkable, but it was the weird sensation Yuuri got when he was around her, a sense of déjà vu, of familiarity, and he found it both comforting and oddly unsettling.

She was cute, too. Actually, she was more than cute, bordering upon delicately pretty. Wide expressive eyes, hair curling about her cheeks and skimming the bottom of her perfectly formed ears, and an easy confidence about her that drew plenty of admirers. That was maybe her only flaw; with all the attention, it wasn’t likely she’d be interested in Yuuri _that_ way. Which was pretty much the story of his life, but he’d really wanted things to be different this time.

His first mistake was hoping for a chance with her nonetheless, but his second, bigger, mistake was telling his friend Ken Murata about her. Murata didn't go to public school like Yuuri did; after middle school, he’d transferred to an exclusive all boys' school, and in Yuuri’s opinion, it was probably the reason Murata came across as a little obsessed with girls. If that's what happened when you were separated from the opposite sex for seven hours a day, Yuuri was glad that his parents had been perfectly content to let their sons attend a co-ed school.

Actually, Yuuri was sure that his mother would have never even considered sending Yuuri or Shouri to a school like Murata’s, if only because it would be a strong reminder that she'd given birth to two boys. It certainly hadn’t prevented her from putting frilly dresses on a much younger Yuuri and putting his hair in ponytails.

None of which was helping his current predicament any more than Murata's constant pumping for information was.

"I don't know!" Yuuri exclaimed, his cheeks turning bright red. "How would I know what size she was?"

"You have eyes, don’t you? You would have noticed if they were like this," Murata said, cupping his hands and holding them several inches in front of his chest. Yuuri slapped his friend’s hands and looked around quickly to make sure no one had seen them.

"No! She's..."

Murata stroked his chin and nodded. "Ah," he concluded. "She’s not very big, then."

Which was true, but it sounded so shallow to put it that way. Yuuri opened his mouth, and then inspiration struck.

"Athletic," he said smugly. "She has an athletic build."

"I see."

The way he said it made Yuuri think that Murata saw more than Yuuri suspected he did. Combined with Murata's smirk and unexpected dropping of the subject, Yuuri was sure that things were only going to get worse.

* * *

Her name was Shelly. Yuuri had known that for a while, but he'd had no reason to address her directly until today, when the zipper on her backpack broke and some of its contents spilled onto the hallway floor. She smiled when he handed her the last pencil, and he was dazzled by the brilliance of her eyes, so much so that he was still crouching on the floor even after she’d wrapped her arms around her bag to keep anything else from falling out. She wiggled her fingers at him and walked away, and he was left staring after her, wondering why he hadn’t expected that sort of reaction from her.

Murata had a theory about that, too, of course. Yuuri hadn’t planned on telling him about the hallway incident, but it had just sort of spilled out, like most things did around Murata. His friend was sneaky that way - he tended to ramble on about this and that before working the conversation around to what he really wanted to discuss. Yuuri’d had no chance, really. He’d become too relaxed, and was absentmindedly squeezing his soda can and listening to the crinkling of aluminum, to notice that he'd been answering Murata’s questions without thinking about what he was saying. When he realized what he’d said, the can crumpled in his grip and he turned to glare at his friend.

"What?" Murata asked innocently. "I was just curious."

Yuuri knew better, because if there was one thing Ken Murata wasn't, it was innocent. In all the years they’d known each other, Ken had managed to get Yuuri involved in situations that didn't concern him. On at least two occasions, Yuuri had taken a beating because of him, too. If it weren't for the fact that he and Murata just seemed to connect in a way he couldn't with his own school mates, there was little reason for the two of them to still be friends.

Murata didn't say anything more about Shelly. Not for another week, at least.

* * *

Shelly had been urged to run for class president, but she'd politely declined, insisting she didn't want to usurp anyone's position. Instead she'd chosen to align herself with Kevin Smart, the candidate considered least likely to win, and had whipped up a campaign that put Kevin’s original plans to shame. To Yuuri, it was a point in her favor. He always had a tendency to root for the underdog, too, and he admired Shelly's perseverance, even if her handshake needed a bit of work. Her fingers were smooth and soft but not very strong. It was best to have a firm, but not too tight, grip. Shaking hands with Shelly was a bit like holding a limp fish, and Yuuri had the distinct impression that he should be bowing over her hand and kissing the air just above her knuckles.

She was enthusiastic, though, and passionate, and Yuuri knew that if Kevin Smart didn't win the election, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

It seemed safe enough to mention the campaign after school, and he was relieved that Murata thought it was a good idea and didn’t press for details. Even if Yuuri knew it was probably for the best, it wasn’t like Murata not to pursue a topic. They’d been friends a very long time, though, so Yuuri should have known better than to think that was the end of it.

* * *

Yuuri’s next mistake was agreeing to go to Murata’s party. It hadn’t occurred to him that Ken Murata had other friends; there was no reason that Murata wouldn’t, really, but Yuuri just hadn't ever seen him hanging around anyone else. He supposed the same could be said about himself, but he had the baseball team and his friends there, even if they only socialized if it was somehow related to the game. The weirdest thing about the party is that Yuuri found out about it from his mother, who was wielding a stiff bristled brush against the stains on the knees of his pants despite Yuuri’s protests that they were just going to get dirty again. 

He was never invited to parties, so of course he was going to go, but it was clear from the way his mother gushed over Murata’s visit – apparently the two of them had created a casserole with whatever was left in the fridge while Yuuri had been at the batting cage – that she fully expected Yuuri to tell Murata right away. She dropped the brush and handed him the phone, then stood there with her arms folded until he'd called and formally accepted the secondhand invitation.

Despite the bizarre manner in which he'd been invited, Yuuri had to admit to a certain curiosity regarding the people that would be at this party. Maybe Murata’s classmates would share a few embarrassing stories. Even hearing one would be nice, since Ken knew so many of Yuuri’s.

Unfortunately, as soon as he'd hung up the phone, his mother decided they had to drop everything and go out shopping so he could find just the right outfit. The shopping trip was as painful as he'd thought, but at least she gave up thrusting pastel colored shirts at him and didn't complain at all when he'd decided to go with a black button-down shirt and crisp black jeans. He didn't particularly like the color black, but it was supposed to be flattering. Plus the choice satisfied his mother. She'd even complimented him on the way they matched his eyes.

* * *

The next day at school, Shelly smiled at him and he smiled back. Her good humor was so infectious, it was impossible not to respond in kind. She was preparing to climb a stepladder to hang up a poster, so of course he offered to help. 

He wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but after hanging the poster, he’d found himself handing out flyers and buttons in between classes, during study hall, and even during the second half of lunch. He was happy to help, though, and only one person had squirted their juice box on him. He still had a few buttons left at the end of the day, but he felt accomplished and was sure he’d made a good impression on Shelly. He hadn't realized just what he’d volunteered for until Shelly told him his next shift started bright and early in the morning, just before homeroom.

Yuuri had always found it hard to say no if someone needed help. While Shelly probably would have managed just fine without him, all it had taken was one grateful look from her to take on additional tasks, even if he noticed that she gave an identical look of gratitude to four other students in the hour before the last bell. She really knew how to be effective without saying a word, and Yuuri admired that about her. It was a refreshing change from some of the louder, more obnoxious people he knew.

Paintbrush in hand, Yuuri leaned against the wall and watched Shelly almost shyly direct another volunteer toward the far end of the hall. He felt a stab of sympathy for the guy - he was covered from neck to waist in campaign buttons. The moment Yuuri realized that Shelly was looking his way, he dutifully went back to painting VOTE SMART in big block letters. He couldn't even remember how he'd gotten stuck with this chore. He was an athlete, not an artist, although he supposed that anyone could be the latter if what was displayed in museums was art. It reminded him of an argument he’d had with an old friend not that long ago.

His brush strokes slowed and he stood there frozen, lost in thought, until Shelly tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a hopeful look. He felt a stab of irritation but apologized anyway. The last four letters were finished in no time. It was funny how much faster he worked when he was in a bad mood, and he wondered if the same could be said of all artists or just the one he knew.

* * *

"Murata, this is your _brother's_ party."

"That it is."

"You didn't mention that."

"If I recall, Shibuya, I didn't mention anything about it to you at all. " He turned to look at Yuuri, but his eyes were invisible behind the glare on his glasses. Yuuri had always hated that, and he swore that Murata knew exactly which way to tilt his head to get that effect.

"Well, thanks for inviting me," he grumbled.

"Of course I'd invite you," Murata replied cheerfully. "I was allowed to have one friend over, to keep me ‘out of the way.’ Who else would I ask?"

Who else, indeed.

"Come on," Murata said. "I've got something to show you."

The something turned out to be a key, and the key happened to be in a lock, rotated a quarter turn to signal that the cabinet was fully accessible.

"I don't know," Yuuri protested. "I don't think my parents would approve. And I know Shouri wouldn’t."

To say nothing of the cops if they got wind of this.

"Come on, Shibuya, live a little," Murata coaxed, reaching into the cabinet and pulling out a decanter that was already two thirds empty. 

This time Yuuri could see right through the glasses, to the sparkle of mischief in Murata's eyes, and he knew that the smart thing to do would be to decline and think up a reason why he couldn't stay long. The thing was that Murata sometimes had a very good reason for what he did, even when it seemed like a bad idea at the time, and Yuuri was too curious to do anything but nod and follow him up to the roof.

He just hoped neither of them would fall off and break a leg.

It was much cooler outside, and he only hesitated slightly when Murata handed him the bottle of cognac. Based on the ornate bottle and stopper, it probably cost more than all the equipment for the baseball team, but Murata had already taken a swig from it, and if Yuuri wanted to know what his friend was up to, he had to play by his game, at least for now.

It was strong going down, but he managed to keep from coughing like an amateur, even when he felt the burning sensation in his gut. It had probably been a bad idea to skimp on dinner, but he'd been nervous about coming here and had expected there to be a few snacks. What kind of party didn’t have snacks? On the other hand, maybe it would work in his favor - at least it would mean he wouldn’t be able to drink as much of the – Yuuri held the decanter close to his face to read the label - Louis XIII than if he'd had something to eat first. He gave the cognac back to Murata.

It was entirely possible Yuuri was imagining it, but he'd swear he could feel the effects already, and when the cognac was in his hands a second time, he took a swig automatically. It was much smoother this time, and the fire in his belly was making the rest of his body feel warm. He tugged at his collar, the bottle no longer in his hand. Had he given it back to Murata already?

The cognac was passed back and forth a few more times, neither of them saying anything. For that, Yuuri was glad. He was feeling a lot more relaxed, even a little drowsy, by the time they’d had half of the cognac they’d started with. When Murata finally spoke, his voice sounded like he was speaking through a cardboard tube, and Yuuri snickered a little, almost missing the actual words.

"This Sherry you told me about, Shibuya. What can you tell me about her?”

"Sherry?" The name sounded wrong, like it had come out as "Surry." The bottle was back in his hand, and he brought it to his lips but didn’t drink. Yuuri opened and closed his mouth a few times, running his tongue along his gums and the inside of his cheeks. It didn't help clear the marbles out of his mouth, but he didn't quite care as much. Ah, of course Murata was talking about _Shelly_. He didn't bother correcting his friend’s mistake. “Sh’s nice. Li’l pushy, but nice. Pretty.”

“What color are her eyes? Her hair?”

Yuuri frowned. What color were they? He’d talked to her a half dozen times today alone. 

"Not green," he said, although it might have come out as _grin._ “Mebbe blue.” He drummed his fingers against the cognac bottle. "’Kay, hurries gray. Hurrrrr eyes. Gray-blue. Pretty, but not like birthstones.” Yuuri nodded, proud of getting that last word out no matter how hard it had been.

"Really." Murata's voice sounded far away but not at all slurred, and Yuuri leaned closer to watch his lips move. 

"Uh huh."

"And her hair?"

It was the lip reading that helped him, because he'd swear that Murata said _underwear,_ and that didn't make any sense at all. Yuuri looked up at the moon, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"Light. Not b’onde." Did he say _blonde_ or _bond?_ Yuuri tugged at his collar again. When had it come unbuttoned? He pointed to his own head. “Not _blonde,”_ he repeated.

Murata was saying something.

"Whazzat?"

"I'm disagreeing with you, Shibuya."

"Me?" Yuuri thought he might have lost track of the conversation. He blinked, trying to bring Murata into focus. "Why?"

"Shelly," Murata said, saying her name correctly this time. Yuuri wondered if he'd only imagined the mistake earlier. Murata was still speaking, very slowly and with each word perfectly enunciated, and Yuuri made a mental note to try that next time he opened his mouth. "I don’t think you like her as much as you think you do.”

Yuuri made a sound of disagreement.

“Shibuya, Shelly’s eyes are blue."

"I _said_ that,” Yuuri muttered, rubbing his eyes. “And howwww.” He paused, reminding himself to speak slowly like Murata had. “How. Do. You. Know. That?" He smiled to himself. It had worked – even he could understand what he'd just said. Or maybe it just seemed like he'd spoken clearly, because Murata didn't seem to have heard him.

"You’re right about her hair. It isn’t blonde; it’s light brown."

Yuuri closed his eyes and tried again to picture Shelly. He knew exactly what she looked like, but he couldn’t describe any of her features in particular. Murata should have asked him before he’d had anything to drink. 

“It’s interesting that you know more about what, or who, she _doesn’t_ look like.”

Yuuri frowned. Wait a minute. How would Murata know what she looked like anyway? She didn't even go to his school.

Although...

Yuuri had heard the rumors, even though he’d tried to ignore them. Even if you were at the bottom of the high school food chain, it was almost impossible to be completely out of the loop, especially when it came to anyone new. The story was that Shelly's family had made a string of poor investments and had fallen on hard times. While that could have been a complete fabrication, part of that rumor had included mention of her old school. A private, all girls’ school. Which, now that Yuuri was thinking about it, was the sister school to the one Murata and his brother attended.

It was funny how it hadn't really registered at the time he'd heard it, and yet sitting here on Murata's roof, drunk to the gills, it seemed crystal clear to him that Murata had probably, had almost certainly, known Shelly, at least casually, before she'd switched schools. Everything else was still about as clear as mud.

Unless you counted the fact that Yuuri thought he might be developing a fondness for ridiculously expensive cognac.

"Shibuya."

Murata's voice had changed. It was still slow, but this time it sounded rather sad. Yuuri reached up and patted him on the shoulder. "Murata."

The bottle had disappeared somewhere, and Murata was lying on his back, staring up at the stars. Yuuri thought that seemed like a good idea and did the same.

"If you could describe the perfect girlfriend, Shibuya, would it be someone like Shelly?"

Yuuri was pretty sure that was the Big Dipper he was looking at - or maybe it was the Little Dipper - and when he finally decided he'd been looking at Orion's Belt the whole time, he thought he might be able to answer without tripping over his tongue.

"Not really." _Success._ That had been pretty easy.

"Why not?"

Of course Murata wanted details.

"She's pretty," Yuuri allowed. "Smart. Consss- _sid_ erate. Did I say pretty?"

Ken's amused chuckle assured him he had.

"I don' know," Yuuri said, attempting to shrug in his prone position. "She's..." Yuuri waved his hands in the air, making his view of the stars blurry. It was hard to put his finger on it, because Shelly had both looks and personality. And she was _nice._

What had he liked about her? She'd exuded a sense of confidence, of knowing she'd get what she wanted no matter the odds. She was tactful; not argumentative - forceful in exerting her will, but in a subtle, often flattering way. She was delicate looking and soft spoken, and Yuuri had thought upon their first meeting that she kind of reminded him of someone, but in a good way.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just not my type."

"I see."

Yuuri wasn't sure he did, actually.

"So then, Shibuya. What _is_ your type?"

He was far too drunk to answer a question like this, but his lack of sobriety was the reason he was willing to try.

"Loyal." The first word out of his mouth surprised him, but he liked the sound of it. "Confident. Confident, but…”

“Vulnerable?”

Yuuri exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

“Stubborn?”

Yuuri turned his head to glare at Murata. 

“It’s not always a bad thing, Shibuya. You’re stubborn, too, you know.”

If Murata meant that as a compliment, Yuuri couldn’t be sure. “Could mean willing to fight..." he stumbled.

"For what you believe in?" Murata finished for him. 

"Mmm,” Yuuri agreed. He did his best to level another glare in Murata’s direction without crossing his eyes. “I fight for what I believe in.”

"That you do, Shibuya." He sat up and crossed his legs. "Why don't we go downstairs now and get some fresh air."

They were already out on the roof getting all the fresh air they could handle, but Yuuri thought it was probably a good idea to move to a place where stumbling was less likely to kill him. 

Downstairs, Yuuri thought he was hallucinating at first. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, but nothing had changed.

"Yuuri Shibuya," Murata said, clapping a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. "I believe you're acquainted with Shailyn, my brother's girlfriend?"

Shelly, obviously short for Shailyn, seemed genuinely happy to see him, but she was dressed like all the girls at those fancy snobby parties shown in teen movies. Yuuri felt downright drab in his dress shirt and jeans.

Well, if movies were to be believed – which they weren't – there was no guarantee he would have been cast as the protagonist. It was more likely he’d have been the comic relief. Right now, though, he'd settle for not burping in her face because the cognac was bubbling away in his stomach and he could feel it trying to climb back up the way it came. Fortunately, Murata had his arm over Yuuri's shoulder, and he spun him right around and pushed him out the back door, where Yuuri fell gratefully to his knees next to a bush, gagged, and waited. 

And waited.

And nothing happened, although when he got back to his feet, a large belch escaped. It tasted worse coming up than it had going down, and he rubbed the back of his hand against his lips and tongue. The only thing that made him feel better was that Murata, who was busy laughing at him, suddenly let loose a very loud hiccup that resulted in a plastic cup being thrown at him from an upper window. In typical Murata fashion, he seemed completely unfazed as it bounced off his shoulder, scooping it up off the ground and tossing it into a large green garbage bin near the fence. The scent of beer and alcohol wafted toward them, and Yuuri turned away, sure that this time he was definitely going to puke.

He didn't, but at this rate he wished it would just happen so he could be done with it. He had a sneaking suspicion he was going to be incredibly hungover in the morning - and yet he felt oddly unconcerned, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Although if this was what it was like to get drunk, he thought it would be wise to avoid doing it again in the future.

"Shibooooooya." Now Murata was slurring, just a little, and he was leaning heavily against Yuuri as they walked.

"Ken." It was easier to say than _Murata._

"You told me what your dream lover would be like. Now tell me what they’d look like."

Yuuri would have jerked away if he'd had the energy. "Not like you."

The laughter was genuine, even if it had a hint of derision to it. "No, Shibuya, not like me. My hair is too dark."

"’Cept when you bleached it,” Yuuri reminded him. “Anyway, it's not about looks."

"Not entirely."

Yuuri had said Shelly wasn't his type, but he'd never really thought about what his type _was_ \- he didn’t even know if he had a type, at least not physically. Maybe it was just something he’d know when he saw it. The two of them staggered along the sidewalk (Yuuri hadn't even remembered reaching the end of the flagstone path leading away from the front door), and he made a brief "nn nn" noise indicating he wasn't falling for any more of Murata's mind tricks.

That was until he saw the streetlight reflecting off hair the color of gold. His vision might be blurry, but the cognac hadn't made him color blind.

He elbowed Murata. _"That._ That’s my type."

"Where?"

_"There."_

Murata raised his hand to his brows, as if he was shielding his eyes from bright sunlight. "There?"

"Yesss," Yuuri hissed, not wanting Murata to blow it for him.

"Right there." Murata was clearly enjoying this. The bastard was obviously doing this on purpose.

He elbowed his friend again, very hard and between the ribs. "Shut _up._ Yes, right there."

They were a lot closer and now Yuuri could make out a profile, the nose turned up just slightly at the end _\- the nose was adorable, too!_ – and lips pursed as eyes flicked down to a piece of paper held in unshaking hands and back up to the number over the door again. Were those eyelashes really that long, or was it just the shadow from the streetlight overhead?

Murata was not only oblivious to Yuuri’s mental cataloging, he was not taking a hint. "The blond."

"Are you blind as well as deaf?” Yuuri whispered. _”Yes,_ the blond."

Murata stood up straight, throwing Yuuri off balance now that he was no longer leaning to one side to support his friend's weight.

"Well then, Shibuya, it looks like you’re all set here."

Yuuri gaped after him as Murata walked back toward his house, whistling merrily. The bastard wasn't even staggering.

_"Yuuri."_

He froze as the familiar voice penetrated his consciousness. Had he heard everything? Yuuri’s mouth was completely dry, although the combination of the cognac and his open-mouthed expression weren't helping at all. He turned and blinked at his onetime nemesis and former friend.

* * *

Wolfram von Bielefeld had come to high school sophomore year brimming with arrogance and snobbery, but it hadn't kept hordes of girls sighing after him as he walked down the hall. There were at least three not-so-secret not-quite-clubs of admirers that Yuuri was aware of, and Wolfram's homeroom desk was often littered with pastel Post it notes, glitter-covered cards, and tissue paper flowers before the first bell rang.

Yuuri had always been a little bit jealous of all the attention, and a lot envious of Wolfram’s effortless confidence. There was some kind of incident with the dark room in the first week of school, and Yuuri’s photography class was canceled, which meant the he could fulfill his arts elective by taking studio art or finding another elective in his junior or senior year to sign up for it again. Yuuri just wanted to get the elective out of the way, so studio art it was. It was in that class that Yuuri had a number of good-natured arguments with Wolfram, about anything from art to food to pop culture. Before he knew it, they were friends, of sorts, and their mutual teasing was more often out of fondness than disdain. At least most of the time; Wolfram certainly acted like Yuuri was inferior, but it was clear he valued Yuuri’s opinion. The real rivalry started when they had P.E. together. 

It was during the spring, and that meant classes were held outside on the baseball diamond. Wolfram hated the sport as much as Yuuri loved it. He was extremely vocal about it, too. Sometimes Yuuri thought that the only enjoyment his sort-of friend got out of the forty-three minutes on the field was finding ways to let Yuuri know exactly how he felt about the All American Sport.

It was bad enough listening to Wolfram bitch about it constantly, but then his indifference had cost them the game. It didn’t matter that the game was just part of gym class; everyone on their team had been pissed, but as Wolfram’s friend, it was Yuuri who’d told him off, quite colorfully and in great detail. Wolfram hadn’t been watching the ball, and half the time he didn't even swing at it, so Yuuri told him that if he didn't care about winning a “stupid game that didn’t mean anything,” (Wolfram’s words, not his), then maybe he should start caring about his grades because Wolfram was heading for an F for his lack of effort.

He and Wolfram were on different teams in their next class, and that had been the turning point in their relationship.

Yuuri didn't know if Wolfram had actually listened to his lecture or if he'd actually practiced – Wolfram probably had no time for the latter, and the former was just plain unlikely – but this time Wolfram didn’t just swing at the ball, he hit it, sending it far enough that he was able to make it to first base.

Part of it had been luck as the outfielders on Yuuri's team hadn't expected Wolfram to do anything more than stand there and look bored, but Yuuri had been standing right behind Wolfram – well, _squatting_ behind him, ready to catch the ball when it sailed past. Yuuri had been watching the ball the moment it left the pitcher’s hand, but so had Wolfram. He’d heard the solid crack as Wolfram swung, and he'd flipped his mask up to watch it sail over the pitcher’s head and into the outfield.

To their credit, the outfielders had recovered quickly, but by then Wolfram had been standing on the bag and looking right toward Yuuri. Their eyes had met, Wolfram had smirked, and Yuuri had known then that this game was going to be different.

There were nights when Yuuri still dreamt about that game and how Wolfram had attempted to steal home. Yuuri had been so sure of himself - the ball was headed right toward his glove; there was no way Wolfram could run faster than the ball – and then he slid toward home plate as Yuuri caught the ball and reached to tag him. 

Yuuri didn’t know how, but the ball had rolled right out of his mitt, and Wolfram had gotten to his feet, looking dirtier than Yuuri had ever seen him. He’d looked at Yuuri with contempt and said one word: _Wimp._

After that Wolfram would rarely acknowledge Yuuri by name, no matter what the circumstances, so of course they’d been partnered on a science project. And of course they'd disagreed on that, too. Wolfram had wanted a volcano, which Yuuri had protested endlessly, coming up with at least a dozen other suggestions that hadn’t already been done a hundred times before. He'd never quite realized how stubborn Wolfram was until then, and in the end, they'd made a volcano, just like Wolfram had wanted.

It was aggravating that the volcano had been impressive as hell – it was the most realistic one Yuuri had ever seen, even before they made it erupt – and it had earned them both an A minus for their efforts. 

It had taken a lot of to make a volcano that impressive, so they’d been forced to spend a lot of time together on it. At first, they'd alternated where they worked on it, sometimes at Yuuri's and sometimes at Wolfram's, but it soon became apparent that Wolfram was more productive at Yuuri's house. At his own house, he’d been agitated and snapped at Yuuri a lot more, especially if either of his older brothers happened to be there. One day, Wolfram’s oldest brother, Gwendal, mentioned that their mother was returning from a trip a day early, and Wolfram had looked from Gwendal to Yuuri and back to his brother with a look of sheer panic on his face.

When Yuuri finally met Wolfram's mother, it had been obvious that Wolfram was her spitting image. It was probably a good thing Wolfram was a guy because he couldn't imagine the chaos at school if one of the girls looked like Mrs. _(Ms.!)_ "Just call me Cheri" von Spitzberg. He felt a little bit sorry for Wolfram, not because Cheri was drop dead gorgeous, but because it was clear that Wolfram was uncomfortable with the way his mother flirted. On more than one occasion, Yuuri had seen his mother and Ken Murata in the kitchen, wearing matching pink aprons - complete with lace and frills - and he’d realized it wasn't sympathy he felt for Wolfram, but empathy.

Who could have guessed that he’d find another thing that he and Wolfram had in common.

They’d finished the volcano in Yuuri's backyard. Wolfram, who was not quite a friend anymore but no longer an enemy, had become a regular visitor in the afternoons. It didn’t take long for Jennifer to take a shine to Wolfram. She’d called him Wolfie, a name that had always made Wolfram cringe when Cheri used it, but that he hadn’t minded at all coming from Jennifer. In fact, Wolfram had even seemed to enjoy it.

Yuuri hadn’t missed the adoring looks his mother gave Wolfram's hair either. She’d probably been wishing she could bedeck it with ribbons, and Yuuri had been thankful that she’d never voiced any of it out loud. Granted, he’d had no way of knowing what she and Wolfram had talked about when he’d had to run into the house for paint or glue or to use the bathroom, but he'd caught her out in the backyard chatting with Wolfram every time he came back. Wolfram had never said anything to make Yuuri think his mother had said something off the wall, and since Wolfram had never been particularly tactful or concerned about insulting Yuuri, there was no way his mother could have done anything to make him want to die of embarrassment.

Even knowing that, it had still made him nervous the way his mother would clasp her hands together each evening after Wolfram left and lament not having a girl with hair the color of spun gold.

Yuuri couldn't have had two friends who were less alike than Ken Murata and Wolfram von Bielefeld, but overall he'd expected that Wolfram would get along with Murata without a problem. After all, they both seemed to enjoy making Yuuri's life hell in their own ways.

He'd not expected Wolfram to start glaring at Murata.

Asking Wolfram what his problem had only earned him a barrage of insults and a couple of doors slammed in his face - even in his own house - and talking to Murata about it had been like trying to get past the Great Sphinx. He'd swear that Murata lived for these moments when he could act like he saw inside everyone's minds and drop hints so Yuuri would catch up to him.

After the volcano project, Yuuri's mother had insisted on celebrating their success and their grade with ice cream. Wolfram had taken a lick from his cone - the first time he'd ever eaten ice cream from a cone, he'd said - and gotten a bit of it on the tip of his nose. Yuuri hadn't even thought about it. He'd swiped his finger against Wolfram’s nose and popped that very same finger into his mouth before realizing how that might have come across. Finger still in mouth, he'd looked up into Wolfram's eyes, which were wide open and staring, and neither of them said a word until Yuuri's mother had returned from the kitchen, shaking a plastic jar of sprinkles.

It had been just one of many awkward situations he and Wolfram had found themselves in back then.

* * *

Here, under the streetlight just two houses away from Murata’s, Yuuri turned around and looked at Wolfram, almost expecting to see a smudge of ice cream on his nose.

"Hey. I didn't know you were back."

The last time he'd seen Wolfram he hadn't even known it was going to be the last time. If he had, then he'd have...well, he wasn't exactly sure what he'd have done, but it would have been something more than nothing.

The cognac was really making it hard for him to think.

Yuuri was suddenly, irrationally angry. He _did_ remember their last time together. It had been on the way to the nurse's office after a particularly exhilarating baseball game. Thanks to a broken bottle that Wolfram had slid into, he’d been leaning his weight heavily against Yuuri much like Murata had done just a few minutes ago, and the blood had been seeping rather heavily through the tear in his pants.

Yuuri hadn't been allowed to stay with him and had been sent to lunch by the nurse with a smile that did nothing to reassure him. He'd been unable to eat, and the rest of the day, he’d been taken to task several times for inattention. He hadn’t been able to breathe normally again until he stopped at Wolfram’s house after school. He was wearing different clothes, and although his face had been cleaned, there were still a few streaks of dirt along his hairline. Wolfram had surprised him by asking if he could come over for dinner. Yuuri knew his mother wouldn't have a problem with it, and as he'd predicted she'd fussed over Wolfram a good deal when they got there. She'd even decorated the Ace bandages around Wolfram's leg with Hello Kitty Band-Aids, and he'd taken it all in good stride, so much so that Yuuri was tempted to ask what they’d given him for the pain.

When Gwendal came to pick him up that night, Wolfram seemed reluctant to leave. "Yuuri," he'd said, pausing in the doorway, and his voice had cracked a little. 

“Your leg,” Yuuri had asked. “Is it…really bad?”

“No. I mean, yes, it’s bad, but it’ll be fine. It’s just…” Wolfram had looked at Yuuri again, near tears this time, and Yuuri had waved frantically to Gwendal, who was leaning against his car with his arms crossed. 

“Wolfram, go home and elevate your leg. If they gave you something for pain, take it; don’t try to be a tough guy. It’s probably ibuprofen, right? That’s what they gave me when I sprained my wrist. It’s like Super Ibuprofen.”

Wolfram had taken a deep breath, which was good, because sometimes it helped with the pain. 

Yuuri had responded by patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Wolfram had given him a wan smile. “Yeah. See you later," he’d said before hobbling to Gwendal's car and never looking back.

And now here he was, six months later, and he hadn't even bothered to explain what he was doing back or why he'd left in the first place.

"How's the leg?"

Wolfram crossed his arms. "How's the sleeping without a night light?"

"What the fuck are you doing back?" As a rule, Yuuri tended to avoid language like that, but now that Wolfram was back, he remembered that it hadn't taken him long to fall into the habit of swearing in Wolfram's presence, usually in response to one of Wolfram's insults.

"Don't blame me for leaving. Blame my mother. She sent me to my father’s to recuperate."

Wolfram's mother came across as a bit flighty, but she genuinely cared about her sons. If she’d decided to send Wolfram away to recuperate, he was sure there’d been a good reason for it. He seemed to be standing straight, without leaning to one side or the other. And Wolfram’s arms were back at his sides, the mysterious note still crumpled in one hand.

"I'm not pissed that you left." _Liar._

"Good."

"Good? _Good?!_ That's what you say when you're pissed at someone, but you want to pretend you're not. They say 'hey, how's it going,' and you want to make sure that they know they're in deep shit with you without actually admitting it, so you come back with 'good,' and if they don't figure it out right away, then that's their problem, but you'll still be pissed and for a lot longer."

Wolfram blinked at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I don't know!"

"Then we don't have a problem." Despite the warm summer evening, Wolfram was wearing a long coat and he pulled it closed, wrapping his arms around himself as if he were cold.

"Like hell we don't!"

The cognac he’d had earlier was making his entire body feel warm, but especially his head. It honestly felt like his head was a teakettle that was going to blow at any moment.

"I'm not mad that you left," Yuuri said. "I was mad, yes, but not because of that."

Wolfram's arms dropped to his sides again and he looked like he was ready to take a step forward but clenched his fists instead. Yuuri remembered that Wolfram used to do this a lot when he was frustrated. God, there was so much that he remembered.

"You never said goodbye," Yuuri said, and suddenly the heat that had built up in his head receded. He dropped to his knees on the sidewalk, turned his head, and vomited over the curb.

Wolfram dropped to a crouch next to him, and a white handkerchief was held to his mouth. He accepted it gratefully. He could feel the embroidered initials in the corner and Wolfram's fingers beneath his own, even as Wolfram’s other hand was rubbing his back in small circles.

"You never said goodbye," he whispered, gripping Wolfram's hand more tightly.

"It wasn’t like I’d had a lot of time to prepare,” Wolfram retorted. His hand stilled on Yuuri’s back. “I tried,” he said, pausing to clear his throat. “But I couldn't. You would have had questions, and I didn’t have any answers.” He tried to get to his feet but Yuuri clutched at his coat and wouldn't let him.

Wolfram sighed. "What do you want from me, Yuuri?"

"Yuuri. You called me Yuuri."

"Well, it _is_ your name."

Yuuri let go of the death grip he had on the coat, and when Wolfram got to his feet, he held out a hand to help Yuuri stand. They were close enough that Yuuri could feel Wolfram's breath on his face. There was also a faint scent of the cinnamon toothpaste Wolfram had favored.

"Hey, Wolfram, did you know I was going to be there?" Yuuri asked, tipping his head toward Murata’s house. When he turned to face Wolfram again, his nose disappeared in golden blond hair. He inhaled deeply and shivered.

It was because of the cognac, obviously.

Wolfram held up the paper that was still clenched in his hand. His thumb was over some of the words, but Yuuri could blearily make out _you_ and _eart’s desire_ and the name of the street they were currently standing on.

Murata should really consider writing scripts for Hallmark movies. He could just picture Ken Murata in a silk kimono and feather boa, using a large ostrich plume for a quill, and it sent Yuuri into spasms of laughter.

"What's so funny?" Wolfram grumbled. His complaint was breathy as Yuuri's lips teased his hair.

"The Great Sphinx."

"You're drunk."

"And you're cute."

"I - what?"

"You should cut loose. Wanna go back to Murata's and have a drink?"

Yuuri was really, _really_ glad that Wolfram just looked at him in disbelief, because the cognac wasn’t done with him yet. He gripped Wolfram’s arm tightly, leaned over, and vomited again.

In the morning, when he was sober and done puking his guts out, he'd have time to sort through his feelings. Right now, though, Wolfram's voice, murmuring that he’d take Yuuri home, was gentle in a way Yuuri hadn’t heard before. Right now, the feel of strong fingers brushing lightly through his hair, damp with sweat and reeking of alcohol, was one of the nicest things Yuuri had felt in a while.

And right now, Yuuri was happy. So happy that as the two of them began walking back toward Yuuri's house, had to sing about it.

Pretty loudly, too, judging from the shouts that came from Murata's second floor and the empty microbrew can that hit Wolfram in the side of the head.

Yuuri winced. "Oh, shit," he said, covering his mouth. “Wolfram, I’m sorry. I didn’t know they’d do that.”

The can must not have been empty after all, because Wolfram was pushing back locks of beer-drenched hair. Yuuri's knees began to shake – not because he was drunk, but because Wolfram looked so adorably indignant.

"You look so...so..."

"Don't even say it, wimp."

Yuuri snapped his mouth shut. He'd said enough already. Like when he'd told Wolfram he was cute, even if he’d immediately backpedaled. He’d said other things, too, to Murata, before he'd realized it was Wolfram he'd been admiring. Had Wolfram heard? And if he had, was it that much of a big deal?

Yep, in the morning he'd sort through his feelings, but right now he didn't really need to, because he felt tingly, warm, and oh so very _right,_. And he still had this overwhelming urge to sing, so he did. Wolfram didn't try to make him stop until they were just outside Yuuri’s front door. His method for shutting Yuuri up was brief but effective, and it caught Yuuri totally by surprise. When it was over, Wolfram lowered his hands, his fingers sliding over Yuuri’s cheekbones with infinite slowness.

Yuuri wiped at his lips and stared back in shock. "Wha?"

"You know how much I hate that song."

Yuuri’s fingers returned to his lips as he watched Wolfram walk away. His leg was clearly not bothering him, because Wolfram was light on his feet. He even jumped to catch a leaf off an overhead branch.

Wolfram was such a liar, too, because as he did so, Yuuri could hear him. He was singing the same. Damn. Song. 

"...buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks..."

He was far enough away that the words were faint, but Yuuri knew the lyrics by heart. It was on, now, and Yuuri had no choice but to join in. Still feeling the effects of the cognac, volume wasn’t a concern, and Yuuri wanted to sing loudly enough that Wolfram could hear him. It worked, too, because the blond stopped at the corner and turned around, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head. Yuuri grinned as he belted out the next line.

"Let me _root! Root! Root!_ for the home team!"

The door flew open and Shouri stood there, hair rumpled, shirt unbuttoned, and looking very disgruntled. He grabbed Yuuri by the collar and hauled him inside.

 _"One._ Shut up before you wake them both. _Two._ Go the bathroom and get cleaned up. _Three._ Make sure you brush your teeth; you smell disgusting. _Four._ Don't let Mom see you like this. _Five._ If I ever catch you like this again, I will break your arm and cost you an entire season.”

Yuuri nodded and grabbed the towel that Shouri thrust at him.

"And _six._ Don’t sing that again. I hate that song."

Yuuri listened to Shouri about as much as he listened to Wolfram. While he washed his face, he sang the song again, although quietly this time, so he wouldn’t wake his parents. This was his song, his and Wolfram's. In the morning, when he had time to sort out his feelings and he wasn't quite so hungover, he'd think a little more about their song. A little more about their song and a lot more about how Wolfram had kissed him even after he’d vomited. Twice.

Yuuri had never had a problem root, root, rooting for the home team before; maybe he’d try playing for it, too.


End file.
